Quote:The captain’s breath stank of onions and tobacco, a medicinal breakfast suggested by the cook to chase away the ill effects of a night’s drinking. He scratched vigorously at the few tufts of remaining gray hair under his worn hat and told Radford yet again, “No.”
“So rather than leave me at port, you’re marooning me here.”
“T’ain’t marooning, m’boy. Seen enough sailors stuck in the gullet an’ once they’re out to sea, the wound festers.” The man shook his head. “Bad luck to smell a man rot ‘board a ship. Best leave you here. You’re young, might mend yet.”
Radford sat on a discarded old bucket that had a hole in the side. He felt pain with every breath so took shallow gasps after arguing with the man. “But—“
“Inkman’s lived here for years,” barked the captain, glancing down at his fresh tattoo on a meaty forearm. “Near enough fresh water an’ food for the both of you. Many ships stop here. When you’re better, they’ll take you on.”
Radford bit down his thought that the last thing he wanted was more time at sea among pirates. For a moment, he suspected the captain knew what had happened days back during the attack on the Dutch ship. But no, abandoning a man on this island was a far cry from the punishment deserved for killing a crew mate. Radford had worried his secret might be discovered and he would be rudely woken one morning and dragged off to hang from the yardarm. No, marooning was only an easy solution to the problem of a sick man who never wanted to be aboard anyway. Perhaps he was better off.
The captain had already turned and walked away from him, in that slightly bow-legged swagger that showed more use aboard ship than on land. The shouted orders to ready the Alecto began to recede in the distance as the men left the beach.
Radford turned his back on the vessel that had been both prison and cruel mother for the last four months. He felt slightly ill from last night and the harsh sun overhead did not help. He roamed a while the outer reaches of the island, counting his footsteps in the white sand until he lost the count on the fifth attempt. Then, stomach groaning, he checked the remains of the campsite, but the pirates had left little behind.
He heard a rhythmic hammering and looked off to the trees. In a small clearing not far from the beach, Inkman sat. Curious despite being unnerved by the Frenchman, Radford took his time approaching.
Inkman stopped and held up a small purplish rock. “Escargot.”
Radford shook his head not understanding.
“Snails.” The man laughed. “You make the face but they are useful. Their homes,” Inkman said as he tossed at Radford what was not a stone but rather an empty shell. It felt warm and slightly slimy. “Make a fine dye. The insides you cook. In Orleans I knew an old woman, maybe ninety, who ate escargot ever day. Her teeth were dark but she was alive at such an age.”
Radford found his stomach unsure of the notion and yet he had to eat something.
“Come closer, Lièvre. They will not bite.” Radford did so. “Here, you take this,” Inkman handed him a mortar and pestle, the sort that the apothecaries in London would use. “Crush the shells until it is nothing left but the powder. Then we will eat and you see.”
Radford ground over a score of shells, harder work than he expected and by the end he felt slightly light-headed. Meanwhile in an old cast iron pan over a small fire, Inkman sizzled the snails with sea water and a dollop of what smelled like congealed pork fat. The meal tasted delicious but not enough to chase off hunger. As if the hole in his side made it impossible to fill his gullet.
Inkman took the ground shell and poured it into an old tin. “For later will mix for dye.